


Of Hope, Joy and Heartbreak

by Natteravn



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ordinary People, Christmas, Established Relationship, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22176217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Natteravn/pseuds/Natteravn
Summary: Six different people connected through hope, joy, heartbreak and football the weekend before Christmas Eve.
Relationships: Erik Durm/Nuri Şahin, Rafael "Rafinha" Alcântara/Marc-André ter Stegen, Roman Bürki/Gianluigi Buffon
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: Football Varieté - A Fic Exchange





	Of Hope, Joy and Heartbreak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Larifari (Khaalysee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khaalysee/gifts).



> Based on the following prompts:  
>  _Frankfurt and Bremen are separated by five hours on the road. But there's a city between them, a city where it all started. A city called Dortmund. [Erik Durm/Nuri Şahin]_  
>  _[Marc and Rafael] visit the christmas market in Marcs hometown Mönchengladbach. AU or not, that's up to you._  
>  _Coffee-Shop-AU. Businessman Gigi meets Barista Roman. Bonus points for christmas/winter theme._  
> ... as well as a semi-cryptic ‘surprise me’.
> 
> I hope there are some elements of the latter in this story, and that it doesn’t seem too far-fetched! Enjoy <3

_Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Düsseldorf._

The rest of the generic welcoming speech from the airline follows, about remaining seated and not remove the seatbelt until the sign has been switched off. Be careful when opening the overhead compartment so that nothing falls out. Smoking is still only permitted in designated areas.

Gianluigi Buffon has heard it so many times that even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to block the words out. The sounds of vibration and various _pings_ fill the aircraft as people start turning off the flight modus on their phones, and the people next to him are already fiddling for the backpacks under their seats.

In nine out of ten cases, he’d travel on business class, but this trip came out of nowhere and somehow, the combination of Christmas, already packed planes, bad weather and staff shortage, made it hard not only to get a seat on business class, but a seat at all.

Gigi quite enjoys the trips to Germany, especially to North Rhine-Westphalia, but just this once, he could do without. But when the winter transfer market is about to open, the Bundesliga is about to go into the winter break, and Juventus managed to schedule appointments with not only one but _both_ Borussias, there’s nothing he can do to make them change their minds.

And the experienced part of his brain tells him that even though this trip and he got off on the wrong foot, he’s going to enjoy it and it’ll pay off in the end, but that still doesn’t change the fact that right now, it’s shit and he’d rather be at home. It might be Alena’s time to have the children this Christmas, but Gigi would still rather spend the weekend preparing for a lonely holiday than trying to score a deal or two.

The plane comes to a halt, and there’s an automatic _bing_ as the seatbelt sign is switched off. Not a second later, the aircraft is filled with the sound of people unfastening their seatbelts and getting up, opening the overhead compartments. Neither of them seem to have taken notice of the request to be careful when opening them, emphasised by the sound of a suitcase dropping to the floor some rows further in the back, and a bag almost hitting an unaware woman in the head as a man carelessly grabs his jacket from underneath a pile of luggage. The man completely ignores the woman as she tries to get his attention, and Gigi leans back in his seat with a heavy sigh.

No need for him to stress when he’s so far in the back of the plane and has been given the window seat. He’ll be one of the last persons off this plane either way, and he’s got better things to do than let himself get affected by it. Five minutes to or from rarely make a difference, and as long as he gets on a train to Dortmund within an hour, he’s comfortably on schedule.

Seven minutes later, he can get his small suitcase from the overhead compartment and leave the plane. Thankfully, he won’t have to wait for any luggage, because the area is cramped with people who have flown in from all across Europe. He passes by exhausted students, stressed parents with small children, even more stressed parents with older children, impatient elders and teenagers bored out of their minds. A young couple are trying to calm down their baby twins, two elderly men are complaining about their wives taking too long in the bathroom, and a teenage son groans when his mother tells him to please watch his baby sister.

Two blokes in their twenties seem to be just as done with the crowd as Gigi is, leaning back against a pole with their hand luggage on the floor by their feet, hands shoved into their pockets. The tall one nudges his shoulder against the Hispanic’s, whispering something in his ear as he pulls down the zipper of his jacket. A brief glimpse of big, green letters catches Gigi’s eyes, then he’s passed the boys and turned left for the exit.

A few steps ahead, he recognises a pretty, well dressed young woman from the gate in Milan, she too only with a small suitcase plus a designer purse hanging off her shoulder. As they reach the arrival hall, which is also packed with travellers and their loved ones who are there to greet them, the woman suddenly squeals and starts running in her impressive heels. Gigi expects her to head for a handsome gentleman in a dark suit, polished shoes and with a large bouquet of flowers in his hands, and is mildly surprised when the woman throws herself into the arms of another woman, the tight hug soon accompanied by happy, out-of-breath kisses.

Looks sure can be deceiving.

As discreetly as possible, Gigi slaloms between the different groups in the crowd, between posters, flowers, balloons and abnormally large teddy bears, heading for the skytrain. A quick glance at his watch tells him that he’s not in any hurry yet, so he doesn’t bother making a run for it when he sees the doors of the skytrain closing just as he reaches the top of the escalator. He stresses enough in his job and daily life already, and he can afford waiting the five minutes it takes for the next skytrain to arrive.

If there’s one thing he’s always found ridiculous, it’s businessmen rushing through the crowds like their business is more important than anybody else’s. Just because he’s now moving in such circles, that has and will not change. He’s still a simple goalkeeper at heart, despite the hands he shakes and the top secret documents he carries.

About an hour later, he steps out on the platform in Dortmund. He’s still got well more than an hour before the meeting with the bosses of BVB, and since the documents he’d planned to leaf through on the train were put aside in favour of some extra couple of Z’s, he might as well go through them over a coffee.

It’s impossible to walk through the downtown area in search for a coffee shop without passing by countless of Christmas market stalls filled to the brim with various kinds of knick-knacks, sweets, hot foods and beverages. The scent of Glühwein is heavy in the air, and even though it’s in the middle of the day, the place is rather cramped with people. Hopefully, sometime in the course of this weekend, he’ll get the chance to enjoy one of the perks of visiting Germany just before Christmas.

The coffee shop he finally finds on a corner is cosy and inviting, and thanks to the market, there are plenty of free places. Soft tunes of Christmas music are coming from the speakers, and there’s a faint scent of the seasonal spices lingering in the room. Christmas decorations have been put up on the tables and above the windows, the rich green and deep red of the holly complementing the solid wooden interior.

The barista – a handsome young man with thick, dark hair and rough stubble – looks up from behind the coffee maker, greeting Gigi with a friendly smile. The question he asks is probably a standard one, but Gigi would rather be safe than sorry.

“English, please?”

“Oh, sorry, my apologies. How may I help you?”

“Just a standard coffee. Black.”

“To go?”

“No, I’ll sit here.”

“Coming right up.” Quick, experienced hands gets the coffee maker going before accepting the cash, returning the exchange after a quick calculation. “Here you go.”

“Thank you.”

The coffee is done a moment later, and the barista hands it to him with a smile that shows a row of perfect, white teeth and a hint of dimples.

“Italian, I presume?” he asks, quickly adding, “if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all,” Gigi responds with a chuckle. “And yes. How could you tell?”

“Recognised the accent,” the barista responds, this time in a slightly accented Italian, and Gigi can’t hide the fact that he’s surprised.

“Impressive,” he says. “You must have an ear for it.”

“Not at all,” the barista – Roman, according to his name tag – says, brushing it off with a hand gesture, drawing Gigi’s attention to his heavily tattooed arm. “I’m Swiss. And my family has a lot of friends and distant relatives in Northern Italy.”

“Oh. But well, still.” Gigi clears his throat, taken aback by the sudden information and not quite sure how to respond. “Well, they’ve chosen wisely. It’s the best part of the country.”

“Yeah.” Roman sends him another smile, shrugging a bit awkwardly. “Enjoy your coffee.”

Gigi dips his head down and raises the cup in thanks, then he finds himself a nice spot in a corner with a view, where he can go through his documents without concern for privacy.

The BVB sure are demanding high sums for some of their youngsters, far more than they’re worth, as far as Gigi can tell. Not that he doesn’t understand that they’re reluctant to sell, but if memory serves him right, they must’ve added to the price recently. It’s entirely possible that they’ve got their eyes set on someone in particular, someone _expensive_ , and they’ll need to compensate.

Not that it really matters. Gigi can’t see how Juventus will be able to meet such demands for the time being. Not with prices such as these.

Gigi reaches for the rich, strong coffee, taking a good sip of it. He’s just turned the page when the front door is pushed open, and he raises his gaze automatically, eyeing the young bloke over the brim of the cup. Dressed a bit like a hipster, if Gigi understands the term correctly, messenger bag thrown carelessly over his shoulder and a knitted beanie covering up unruly curls.

Roman seems to recognise him, if the beaming smile and the soft ‘hey’ are anything to go by, smiling wrinkles appearing around his eyes. It fades rather quickly, however, once the other man opens his mouth, and one doesn’t have to know the language to understand that he’s not happy. Roman’s attempt to keep the conversation quiet enough for the costumers not to take notice is ignored completely.

Gigi listens to the sound of their conversation with half an ear while leafing through the rest of the documents.

Eventually, Roman must’ve had enough, because he throws a cautious look around the coffee shop – Gigi makes sure to reach for his cup just in time – before pointing with his thumb towards the back. The other gives him a curt nod, disappearing through the doorway as Roman puts up a sign on the counter and follows.

When someone needs to have a chat with you like that, it’s seldom a positive sign. Gigi can hear muffled voices coming from the room, but even if he spoke the language, he doubts he’d be able to make out any of the words. Still, he can’t deny that he’s intrigued, especially not when the front door opens, another costumer walks in and a young redhead hurries out to cover for Roman.

The costumer has just been given his order and is heading back out when something breaks in the back. Both Gigi, the costumer and a group of friends sitting close by jump in surprise, and the redhead behind the counter mutters something under her breath. One doesn’t have to be a native speaker to know that that was a row of curse words coming out of her mouth, before she rushes back to the kitchen.

A quick glance at the watch on the wall reminds Gigi that he should be getting on his way. A meeting like this is not one he can be late for.

Important hands have been shaken, fancy words have been spoken and enormous sums of money have been discussed. Meetings like this one is the rough part of the job, and Gigi’s more than relieved when it’s over.

“Just one last thing before you leave, Mr Buffon,” Hans-Joachim Watzke says as Gigi’s gathering his things. “When are you flying back to Italy?”

“Monday evening.”

“That late, huh?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, it was the only flight available on such short notice.”

“I see.” Watzke falls quiet for a moment, exchanging a look with Michael Zorc, then he clears his throat. “Seeing as the meeting today went as well as it did, we would very much like to meet again as soon as possible, once our own scouts have returned from Turin. Theoretically, we can squeeze in a meeting on Monday around noon. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

Well, it’s not like Gigi has better things to do. And it would probably save him another trip in the near future.

“Suits me perfectly,” he says, fastening the top button of his suit jacket and smoothing it down.

“Wonderful. I’ll make all the necessary arrangements and email you the details in the course of the day.” Watzke holds out his hand and Gigi accepts. “Until Monday, then, Mr Buffon.”

“Looking forward to it, Mr Watzke.”

“And I do hope you’ll enjoy the match tonight.”

“I’m sure I will.”

The atmosphere in a stadium on a cold December evening, illuminated by floodlights and the warmth and energy from the Yellow Wall, even before the teams have entered the pitch, is enough to make the stress of the job worth it. Once he’s finally here, seated comfortably with a good overview, Gigi can forget about the long working days, the many meetings and the short notice travelling. Although he’s at the match for business and not pleasure, this is an environment he knows and feels comfortable in.

He hears it before he sees it that the away team has entered the pitch to start their warmup. The Süd, already quite full, boos loudly as the players walk out and head for the opposite half.

Only one player seem to linger behind, and when he suddenly steps over on the home team’s half for a brief moment, raising his arm in greeting, the Süd greets him back like an old friend rather than a foe. No wonder, Gigi realises when he squints, taking in the player’s dark hair, bright smile and Turkish features, and he doesn’t need to wear his jersey for Gigi to know that it has the name Şahin printed on the back.

✯

Nuri rips off the dry jersey and flops down on the bench, throwing the jersey in the direction of the laundry basket. Disappointed and dejected teammates are starting to fill the locker room, the ones who have played heading straight for the showers after shedding their sweat-soaked kits.

Nuri can’t really be bothered when he doesn’t need it.

It’s not like he expected to win against BVB, but a lucky goal from Götze at the very end of a rather even match where both teams deserved a point each, that feels like a bigger loss than a 4-0 slaughter. Former teammates or not – tonight, he’s just not able to be happy on an old friend’s behalf.

Only when the first teammates are coming back from the showers, does Nuri pull off the rest of his kit and drags on his leisure wear.

“I hear you’ll be staying?”

Nuri looks up at Sebastian, waiting until the other player is done rubbing the towel over his wet hair before responding.

“Yeah.”

“Old teammates?”

“Old _friends_ ,” Nuri corrects him fondly, and Sebastian smiles.

“I take it doesn’t feel quite right to you, being in here.”

Despite himself, Nuri chuckles. “Definitely not. I had to concentrate not to walk into the other locker room.”

He may not have played for the A team ten years in a row, but this is the club he grew up in, and he has so many fond memories of both the city and the team, so many dear friends from the time spent here. He knows the people working here, he knows the routines, he knows the stadium and the training grounds inside out. When playing abroad, he can accept that this isn’t his home anymore. Playing for another German team, however, will never stop feeling slightly alien.

“Oh, tell me about it,” Sebastian grins and pulls on his shirt. “I almost did the same in Berlin a few weeks back. Didn’t get it until Kalou gave me this weird look and pointed to my jersey.”

The team isn’t heading back to Bremen until the next day, and it’s already very late when they’re back at the hotel and Nuri finds himself in the room he shares with Claudio.

“I’m knackered,” his teammate groans as he drops his bag to the floor and heads for the bathroom. “You mind if I go first?”

“Not at all,” Nuri responds, walking over to his bed by the window, putting down his bag. “I’m not even that tired, to be honest. I might just go for a short walk, stretch my legs a bit. That okay with you?”

“Sure.” Claudio yawns, stretching his whole body. “I’ll be fast asleep within minutes anyway.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be quiet.”

It feels wrong staying in a hotel in a city he’s lived in for so long, knows so well and he used to consider his home. A hotel room feels nothing like home.

The hotel isn’t exactly in the city centre, but it’s not far. It feels good, whenever he’s back, to just walk along streets he knows just as well as his own back pocket, seeing old corners again, noticing the changes if there are any. Feeling like it’s been longer since he left than it actually has when he notices even the slightest changes in the road, or some shop has closed down to give room for a new one.

A message ticks in from the BVB group chat.

**Mats:** _tomorrow at noon, wasn’t it?_

Three thumbs up from Marco, Marcel and Mario respectively follow, and Nuri adds a fourth.

He passes by stores, restaurants and hairdressers which have long since closed for the night. It’s quiet, mostly, apart from the occasional car passing by. Only when he rounds a corner and knows that he’s getting close to a club, does he hear loud voices and heavy beats.

Strict and heavily muscled bouncers are guarding the entrance with people standing in a long queue to get in.

A couple are making out like their lives depend on it.

A group of loud, squealing young women appear around the corner, all of them clearly tipsy as they struggle to balance in their high heels and short dresses.

A man curls a tattooed arm around a lamppost as he bends over, and a small redhead puts a hand on his back, using the other to hold his dark locks back.

Nothing out of the ordinary on a late Friday night, in other words.

Nuri wishes he could call, or at the very least text Erik, but he knows that it’s too late for that now. He’s got an important match tomorrow and needs to be well-rested. Who knows, maybe he’ll be lucky and actually get some playtime before the year’s over. Not that the chances are in his favour, but Nuri can always hope on Erik’s behalf.

When he comes back to the hotel, Claudio is fast asleep. Without turning on the lights in the room, Nuri slips into the bathroom and hurries through his bedtime routine before sneaking back out. He finds the bed in the darkness, gets in and unlocks his phone to set the alarm.

A new message glows towards him in the pitch dark.

[Four minutes ago] **Erik:** _i’m looking forward to tomorrow_ ****

✯

Gigi never got the chance to play against Gladbach in his active years, and although the chances weren’t great to begin with, he’s always found that to be sad, considering his love for the club ever since he was a child. Trips such as these, even though they’re work first and pleasure second, are therefore always welcome.

Today though, is thankfully mostly pleasure. The meeting with the club is set for Sunday morning. Not very German like to schedule a meeting on a Sunday, but he supposes they, like everyone else, want to get as much done before the holidays as possible, even if that means spending a few extra hours on a day which traditionally is kept sacred.

Gigi can’t say he minds it all too much when he steps out of the train and onto the platform. This gives him plenty of time to check into the hotel, look through the necessary papers in peace and quiet, and still get to the stadium within reasonable time. And tomorrow, after what’s likely going to be an early but rather brief meeting, he can spend the rest of the day enjoying the city and go for that stroll through the Christmas market he’s been planning.

It certainly could’ve been worse.

The streets are packed with black, white and green. It’s still more than two hours until the match starts, but Gigi can’t risk being late, so he’s already called for a cab. As predicted, traffic through the city centre is slow, and Gigi leans back against the headrest, watching the fans. Maybe they’re coming straight from the Christmas market and are now heading for the match.

Families, teenagers, groups of friends, couples.

The cab comes to another halt at a red traffic light, and Gigi leans a bit to the side to watch the people crossing the street. There’s not a single one who isn’t wearing anything that can connect them to the club in some way, be it scarves, woollen caps or jerseys. A tall bloke with a goalkeeper jersey pulled over his jacket catches Gigi’s eye, and he sits up, gaze moving from the front to the side window to follow the person.

The bloke throws his head back with a laugh, grinning broadly down at a smaller friend, standing with his back to Gigi’s cab. There’s something about the scene, something about _him_ which stirs a memory, but Gigi can’t seem to place it.

The traffic light must’ve turned green, because the cab slowly starts rolling again. A quick, out-of-reflex glimpse out the front window, and when Gigi turns back to the two friends, he’s lost them in the large crowd of fans.

He’s probably just imagining things. There’s no way he would recognise a random fan of a club he’s only visited a handful of times.

✯

It’s not that Nuri isn’t happy to see old teammates in a setting that isn’t on the pitch where he himself has become the enemy, but the loss from the night before still stings a bit. It feels weird, because to a certain degree, he’s always pleased when BVB gets three points, much happier with his dear old club winning the league than anyone else. Then again, his experience with playing for another team in Germany is sorely limited.

It’s not only that, though. It’s the fact that he took initiative to this meeting mostly as an alibi that _yes_ , he stayed behind in Dortmund to visit old colleagues and good friends. To be able to say that yes, Marco and Mats both think it’s stressful but so very giving being dads; yes, Mario and Marcel are still quite happy that they aren’t; yes, they’re all doing fine and it was great seeing them again, I’ve missed them a lot.

But even they don’t know that it’s another former colleague who’s the real reason he’s staying behind. A colleague he’s been seeing in this way for years, but much less frequently than he’d prefer ever since they both transferred.

He’s standing at the train station, excited and ready, when the train from Paderborn arrives. He wants nothing else but to throw himself at Erik, pull him as close as possible and kiss the living breath out of him, but instead he clenches his fists, putting on his best but nothing-more-than-friendly smile.

“Hey, Erik,” he calls out, having spotted the younger before the younger’s spotted him, and Erik beams at him as he turns in the right direction, quickly regaining control as well.

“Hey,” he says back when he close enough, and they share a bro-like hug, these quick ones that are more claps on the other’s back than anything else.

“How did the match go?”

“Not better than yours yesterday. Benched every second, as expected. Only difference was that we were losing from the beginning.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. Managed to get a lucky goal halfway through the second half, but that’s all.”

“The goal difference isn’t a quite so irrelevant factor this season, though.”

“Yes, but it’s _Paderborn_.”

Nuri just nods, squeezing Erik’s shoulder.

He’s booked them into another hotel than the one he stayed at with the team, in order to raise less suspicion. Located in the city centre, so that they won’t have to use public transportation and have a short walk to the trains on Monday. One of those rooms with a double bed that’s just two singles pushed together, just in case someone were to find out who he shares the room with. It’s not ideal, and if you do it often enough someone’s bound to pick up on it, but it’s the option they have. And so far, they’ve been lucky.

“You hungry?” he asks Erik when they’ve stepped into the lift.

“No, not really.”

“Room service later?”

Erik sends him a look, and they both hold it for a second longer than friends would. “Yes.” His voice is low, hushed. “I don’t intend to leave the room at all. I want nothing but you tonight.”

That’s what it’s always like when they have as little time together as they do. Whether they have an evening, a whole day or even a weekend, it’s usually spent locked up together in the hotel room, doing nothing but each other. Oh, how Nuri would’ve loved it if they could’ve met Mats and the others today _together_ , without lying, without hiding, without worrying about their former teammates’ reactions or any potential consequences, because just like in women’s football, these things just _happen_ when you grow so close together as a team, and if one teammate then ends up marrying another, the rest of the team celebrates with them.

Smooth hands and blunt fingernails dig into Nuri’s shoulder blades before travelling up his neck, into his hair and then grabbing him by the nape, forcing their mouths together in a searing kiss. His pale, rosy skin is warm under Nuri’s palms, his movements familiar but no less breathtaking, clenching so wonderfully that Nuri’s about to lose it long before he wants to.

He grabs Erik’s hips harder, stilling him, forcing him to slow down. They’ve got time. They don’t have to rush like it’ll be taken away from them immediately after, not when they’ve got all night, and all of tomorrow. This isn’t like in Frankfurt two months ago – a rushed, one-time quickie in the catacombs beneath the stadium before their busses left – and Nuri would much rather make the most of every single time, knowing that he’ll have to live on these couple of days for a long time to come, not sure when their next chance will be.

But then Erik’s breath hitches and it’s like music to his ears, clenching uncontrollably despite Nuri’s attempt to hold back, and Nuri moves one hand between them, takes proper hold, eyes focussed on Erik’s flushed cheeks, red-kissed open mouth and dark, sweaty bangs as the climax washes over him, the aftershocks of it bringing Nuri over the edge as well.

Erik’s mouth against his own, calm and full of promise for the rest of the stay more than make up for it, and as Nuri’s heart rate slows, he allows himself the luxury of appreciating their current state instead of thinking about tomorrow.

It’s not much, and it’s never enough, but it’s what they have and damn if they aren’t going to make the most of it.

✯

Marc’s been excited about this Christmas market thing ever since the first Sunday of Advent. ‘Man, I wish I was home right now’, ‘The market in Mönchengladbach is probably up already’, ‘I can’t wait to show you, you’re going to love it’ and ‘It’s impossible to get into a Christmassy mood without a proper market to go to’ have been only _some_ of the complaints Rafael has listened patiently to for the past four weeks, and now that they’re on their way, he finds it hard to match Marc’s enthusiasm.

“So,” he says when they’re finally there, passing under a brightly lit gate with two long rows of wooden stalls behind it. The whole thing looks rather misplaced in the midst of dull buildings and grey weather. “Who do you still have to get presents for?”

Marc turns to him with a confused look. “I already have all of the presents. I thought I told you?”

Rafael looks up at him, just as confused. “And still we’re going to the market?”

“Yes?”

“I take it the Christmas market isn’t about buying Christmas presents, then.”

Marc chuckles, the corners of his mouth pulling it into a broad smile. “Oh, no, not at all. Not that you can’t find nice things here, but that’s not its main purpose. Eating, drinking, hanging out with friends is more like it.” When he sees Rafael’s sceptic look, he goes on, “It’s the atmosphere which makes the whole difference. Having something hot to warm yourself on in the cold weather, dozens of stalls lightening both the streets and the mood in the darkness, bringing some of the cosiness from the inside to the outside.”

“It’s in the middle of the day, it’s just a bit chilly and it’s drizzling.”

“It’s cold compared to Barcelona.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, Marc, but this really is far from what I pictured when you told me you were taking me to the _Christmas_ market.”

“I clearly forgot to stress the most important thing,” Marc grins and pulls him close. “The company.” And before Rafael can react, he’s got Marc’s soft lips pressed against his own, which, okay, _may_ be enough to make up for the grey sky, the cool raindrops and the sore lack of the atmosphere he was promised.

“Yes, it may not be the most Christmassy atmosphere here right now, but it’s the memory of it. I remember the cold and the snow and the lights and the stalls and the childish joy of having a mug of hot chocolate between mitten-clothed hands from when I was a kid. Sure, the weather isn’t doing us any favours right now, but this is tradition. It’s just like hearing Christmas music or opening the first window in the Advent calendar. As soon as you see the stalls popping up around the city, you know the time is almost upon us.”

“If you say so,” Rafael gives in, and decides not to mention that this whole calendar business is another thing that’s not exactly common in his part of the world.

Marc grins and reaches for his hand. “Now, what would you like to drink?”

Because Rafael doesn’t even know which choices he has to consider, Marc gladly pulls him along after a few moments of hesitation, mentioning something about having to try everything.

“Need I remind you that I burned off most of my money on the plane tickets alone?”

“Oh, don’t worry, you’re not paying a cent. My treat.” Then Marc squeezes Rafael’s hand and winks at him. “Or rather, Mum’s. She gave me some extra and was very strict when she told me I were to spoil you rotten, since you’ve come all this way and it’s your first time here.”

“That’s very kind of her.”

“I told you she’d be ecstatic to finally meet you.”

Despite Rafael’s initial lack of enthusiasm, it’s hard not to get smitten by Marc’s when he’s being more _boyfriend-y_ – for the lack of a better term – than ever before. Not all of the drinks are made to please Rafael’s taste buds, but they do smell wonderfully and the spike of alcohol soon make him loosen up a bit. He’s not drunk, and not tipsy either, exactly, just… more at ease. Warmer. More comfortable.

Marc’s kisses are warm and spiked as well, a bit of a contrast to the cold tip of his nose, the roses covering his cheeks, his bright and sparkling eyes. It’s not just the fact that they’re here, at the market and that it’s Christmas Eve in only a few days. It’s because he’s home again after several months in Barcelona, he finally got to see his parents again, his brother’s arriving tonight with his pregnant girlfriend, and for the first time, he gets to celebrate the holidays with a partner of his own. Marc might have a close connection to Catalonia, but it can’t be compared to home. The look in his eyes when Rafael agreed to sacrifice Barcelona’s last match before Christmas for Gladbach’s, that was proof enough if Rafael needed any. Even a draw against Hertha wasn’t enough to put a damper on Marc’s mood yesterday.

Marc puts his cool hands on Rafael’s cheeks and pulls him in for another kiss. Yeah, he probably shouldn’t forget very, very happily in love. He doesn’t have to be more than healthily self-confident to see that he himself has also played a not so insignificant role in Marc’s joy.

And that sure is a nice feeling, being the cause of someone’s happiness like this.

Rafael can’t tell how long they’ve been there, but they’ve walked back and forth for a good while and darkness is starting to fall when suddenly, Marc comes to an abrupt halt, his free hand – the one not holding Rafael’s – landing on Rafael’s chest and spilling some of the Glühwein down his chin.

“There.”

“What?”

Marc points over to a stall a few metres away, trying to be discreet about it as Rafael wipes his chin with the sleeve of his jacket. “The man I told you about at the airport. Buffon.”

“Oh. Goalkeeper, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Marc just breathes, without taking his eyes off the man. “Yeah, he was bloody brilliant. It’s a shame he had to quit when he did. He had the works to become a true legend if he hadn’t been forced to stop due to injury.”

“Right. Any idea what he could be doing here?”

“I think he got a position at Juventus after. He must’ve been at the match yesterday, probably a part of their scouting department.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.” Marc pauses for a moment, collecting himself. “You know, he was divorced around that time as well, back when he was forced to quit. Countless of rumours floating about.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Marc turns to look at him, a mischievous glimpse in his eye. “Some of them even said something about a man being involved.”

“His wife was _cheating_?”

“No,” – and now Marc grins at him, eyebrows wriggling slightly – “ _he_ did.”

Rafael stares up at Marc. “ _No_.”

“ _Yes_. Of course, it was never confirmed, but it wasn’t exactly denied either. And, well, I was still a youth player at the time…” Marc trails off, clears his throat.

“ _Ooh_ ,” Rafael coos, realisation starting to dawn on him, “are those the traces of an old crush I’m hearing?”

“No?”

“It is, isn’t it?” Rafael can’t hold back his grin any longer, letting go of Marc’s hand to elbow him in the side. “You had a crush on him.”

“No? No, I did _not_ , I was merely–”

“Marc had a cru-ush, Marc had a cru-ush,” Rafael begins to singsong, only to have his mouth covered by Marc’s hand.

“It wasn’t a _crush_. As a goalkeeper myself, I looked up to him. That’s all.”

Rafael grins as he pushes Marc’s hand away. “Oh, so you wouldn’t be too star-struck to speak if I went over there now and made him come over?”

“You can’t just go do that,” Marc says, shaking his head with a snort, only to grow serious when Rafael just raises an eyebrow. His eyes widen and he takes hold of Rafael’s wrist, desperation in his voice when he says, “No, please, Rafa, you wouldn’t. He’s a respected man. He’s at _work_.”

“Can’t imagine there’s anything in his job description as a football scout which includes Christmas markets.”

“No, Rafa, get back here,” Marc hisses after him, but Rafael’s already wrestled himself free and is heading for this Buffon.

He’s normally not this forward. And had he recognised the player himself, he never would’ve dared to do this. But the combination of spiked Christmassy drinks and Marc’s embarrassment and/or starstruckness and this opportunity just being too _good_ to let pass, gives him enough courage to walk over there, confidently, tapping the much taller man on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Buffon turns around, a slightly confused look on his face. “Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Rafael,” Rafael says, making sure to send him his brightest and most confident smile. “Sorry to disturb you like this, but you don’t happen to have a spare moment, do you?” Without waiting for a response, he turns to point in Marc’s direction, not failing to notice how Marc’s eyes widen comically and the colour of his cheeks turns too red to be just the weather. “See, my boyfriend over there, he’s a bit on the shy side but he’s also kind of a fan, and I know it’d mean so much to him if he got the chance to say hi.”

Buffon takes a moment to respond, his gaze just lingering on Marc, eyebrows furrowed. Then he looks down at Rafael with a welcoming smile on his face and says,

“Sure. Why not.”

Marc fidgets as they walk over, and before Rafael or Buffon can say anything, he blurts out.

“I’m so, so sorry. You must be really busy and we did not mean to disturb you, just–”

“Oh, no, that’s quite alright,” Buffon reassures him, and he may not have that many centimetres on Marc, but his whole presence makes him seem a lot bigger still. He eyes Marc with an interest Rafael didn’t expect and asks, “What’s your name, kid?”

“Marc,” Marc says, stuttering for a second before adding, “ter Stegen.”

“Ter Stegen,” Buffon repeats, mostly to himself, looking into thin air as he seems to taste the name. “Ter Stegen…”

Rafael sends Marc a look, but Marc only shrugs back.

“I wonder… It’s not Marc- _André_ ter Stegen, is it?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Yeah? I thought you looked familiar.”

_What?_

Now Rafael openly stares at Marc, suddenly overcome with an overwhelming, intense feeling of _who is it exactly that I’m dating here_. Marc’s told him about being a youth player, but he never once mentioned anything about being famous.

Marc, however, seems to be just as taken aback as Rafael is, stuttering as he looks at Buffon with wide eyes, not able to formulate a proper response to the former goalkeeper’s statement.

The older man just chuckles. “Gladbach has been a favourite club of mine for as long as I can remember,” he explains. “Not that I paid that much attention to the youth players in the past, but I did keep half an eye on the goalkeepers.”

“Really?” Marc sounds out of breath.

“Yes. You were really good back then. It was truly a shame to see you quit. I did wonder what happened when you suddenly weren’t a part of the academy any longer.”

“Oh.” Marc looks away, scratching his neck. “Yes, well. The life of a professional footballer just wasn’t compatible with other aspects of life.” He clears his throat, darting a glance over at Rafael.

Something passes over the features of the former professional goalkeeper, and the smile he gives Marc next seems almost sad. “It’s like that still, isn’t it?”

Marc nods, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “I’m still happy I came as far as I did, though. I do miss it at times, the locker room, being a part of a team.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Buffon winks. “That never leaves you, no matter how long it’s been.”

Buffon then turns to Rafael, and Rafael’s still so floored by this whole interaction that he doesn’t catch that Buffon’s asking for a photo until he sees the phone in the older man’s hand.

“Uh, yes, sure,” he stutters, wondering when he became as bad as Marc at handling the situation. Must be the alcohol.

He snaps a few photos of them together, Buffon grinning broadly and Marc looking more than a bit star-struck with his arm around Buffon’s waist and Buffon’s arm across his shoulders, making sure to get a few with his own phone as well before they break the pose and Buffon wishes them goodbye.

For a long, dream-like moment after that, both Rafael and Marc just stare after the former goalkeeper.

“Tell me that that did not just happen,” Marc finally says, sounding out of breath, eyes brighter than ever when his gaze meets Rafael’s.

“But it did.”

“Holy shit.” Marc leans back against the nearest lamppost, tilting his head back with a happy, rough laugh as he looks up at the by now rather dark sky. “Come here,” he adds, holding out his hand to pull Rafael close, turning him in his arms so that Rafael has his back to Marc’s chest, Marc’s arms crossed over his shoulder and lips against his temple.

“God, I love you. Thank you so much for this.”

“Nothing to thank me for.”

Rafael follows Marc’s gaze. It must’ve stopped drizzling without him taking notice, because the sky is almost clear, the moon shining bright and countless of tiny stars are starting to peek through the thin clouds.

✯

There will never come a time when Nuri won’t be happy to wake up next to Erik in the morning. It’s not because he’s stuck in the romantic, lovesick mind of a teenager, but because he can count it on one hand the times he gets to do it in the course of a year.

The two match days they play against each other. One, two if they’re lucky, match days where they’re both close enough to meet up in Dortmund. And a possible wild card, in case they happen to draw each other in the Pokal.

“We have to stop doing this,” he whispers, more to himself than to Erik, as he runs his fingertips gently up and down Erik’s shoulder blade. The younger player seems to be asleep still, and Nuri’s both grateful and not that Erik hasn’t heard him. He doesn’t want this to stop, and doesn’t want to do or say anything which might endanger this relationship, but they cannot _not_ talk about it either. At some point, they’re going to break if they keep doing it like they have ever since they both left BVB.

Erik stirs under the covers, and a soft sigh reaches Nuri’s ears.

“I know,” Erik whispers back and rolls over, tired bedroom eyes meeting Nuri’s own, the corners of his mouth twitching as he places a hand on Nuri’s naked chest. “Just not yet.”

If they were to create themselves a slogan, that would be it. We have to stop, _just not yet_. We have to talk about this, _just not yet_. We should be honest with our families, _just not yet_.

Wouldn’t it be nice if life as a gay or bisexual footballer could be open and honest – _just not yet, love, DFB_.

Instead, Nuri lets Erik roll on top, grabbing him by the ears and pulling him in for their final kiss, their final snog, their final fuck of the decade, because who knows what the next one will bring.

It’s only a shame that they can’t stay any longer after that, and that once they leave the hotel, they’re back to being two ordinary former teammates who just so happened to run into each other on their way to grab a coffee before going home for Christmas.

✯

Roman loves Christmas.

He’s been looking forward to it since before the Christmas market was opened, he had the decorations and the Christmas playlist ready on the 1st of December, he loves preparing the Advent calendar for his boyfriend, he loves all the Christmas flavours they get in at the coffee shop, and he loves standing behind the counter and prepare them for the costumers with “All I Want For Christmas Is You” playing in the background, knowing that he’s already found the one and can’t wait to spend Christmas in Dortmund with him and his family.

Yes, Roman loves Christmas.

At least he did until this weekend.

Because now he’s stuck here, in this overly Christmassy atmosphere, still hung-over from the weekend, and all he’s got left is a heart shattered to a thousand pieces and a far too expensive ticket home to Switzerland in the afternoon. He’s already messed up more orders than not, Monika won’t be coming in for at least another hour, and each lovesick Christmas song is just replaced by the next.

_Last Christmas, I gave you my heart._

_I’m driving home for Christmas. And I can’t wait to see those faces._

_You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, happy Christmas your arse, I pray God it’s our last._

“Finally something we can agree on, sister,” he mutters under his breath, only to suppress a groan when the dirty realism is replaced with _Santa baby, forgot to mention one little thing – a ring_. God, it never stops, does it. All these holly jolly Christmas songs must’ve been written by people who’ve never experienced a break-up in their lives.

The door to the shop is pushed open, and two familiar faces walk in. Roman’s heart skips a beat at the first glance, then he puts on his best costumer service face and tries to make the smile reach his eyes. They may not be BVB players any longer, but he’s seen them here a few times before, mostly just the two of them together. He stopped being nervous after the first time, helped by the fact that he does have footballers as guests regularly enough not to take much notice, but today is simply a special day.

In the bad sense of the word.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologises, the desperation in his voice starting to show as he knocks over one order, after already having gotten the other order wrong. There’s coffee everywhere there shouldn’t be, and the cup falls to the floor with a loud, piercing sound, shattering worse than Roman’s heart did on Friday. Whatever happy, romantic Christmas song which is currently playing seems to increase in volume, boring into Roman’s ears and he freezes, lost between the instinct to clean up right away, his duty to make a new coffee as fast as possible, and the mental preparation for the justified complaint he’s about to get.

Durm and Şahin exchange a look before turning to Roman with this almost pity-like expression on their faces.

And no, Roman can’t take pity on top of everything. Regardless of what’s going on in his personal life, he’s supposed to be professional and neutral at work, and not let his bad day ruin the possibly good day his costumers could be having. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath, calming his nerves.

“Listen, why don’t you,” – he wipes off his hands on the apron and reaches for two cinnamon buns, still lukewarm from the oven – “take these, find yourself somewhere nice to sit, and I’ll bring you a new coffee as soon as I’ve sorted everything out back here? On the house, of course.”

Şahin is the first to take the hint. “Thank you so much for the service,” he says as he accepts both plates, giving Roman a warm smile.

“Nothing to thank for, it’s the least I can do.”

He finds a new, whole cup, makes sure to choose the correct type of coffee, and starts the machine before tackling the mess he’s made. He’s done it enough times to work on autopilot once he’s started, and not long after, he can bring a fresh cup over to the two footballers’ table.

“Apologies again for the trouble,” he says as he hands Şahin the cup, but the former BVB player just smiles at him.

“Nothing to apologise for. Christmas is rough, isn’t it?”

The door pings as a new costumer arrives.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Roman sighs, adding a quick ‘enjoy’ before hurrying back to his place behind the counter.

And really, that’s just perfect, isn’t it, because the costumer who just arrived is that handsome, older Italian businessman from Friday.

In the background, Mariah Carey finds out that it’s her time to shine over the speakers again.

Roman’s nerves aren’t strong enough to handle this much at once.

“Fancy seeing you here again,” Roman greets the man, trying to keep his voice from breaking when he adds, “what can I get you?”

“Just a black coffee, please.”

“To go?”

“Yes.”

Roman’s hands shake as the Italian hands him the money, and he sends a silent prayer that he doesn’t fuck up an order as simple as this. Something must still give him away, though, despite his efforts to keep calm, because the businessman suddenly asks,

“Everything alright?”

Roman looks up and for a glimpse there, as his eyes meet the other man’s, he’s caught by a weird sense of déjà vu, as if he’s seen the man before, somewhere else than here in this coffee shop.

“Yes, everything’s… perfect.” He clears his throat and puts on his best smile – which obviously isn’t his best since he has to fake it – and hands over the coffee. “Rough weekend, that’s all.”

“I see.” And just like the footballers only minutes ago, he too sends Roman this look of pity and a gentle, _caring_ smile, adding a “thank you” and “merry Christmas” before disappearing back out the door.

_Baby, all I want for Christmas is you_ , Mariah sings, dragging out the _you_ as if her life depended on it.

Roman puts up the _be right back_ sign, hurries off into the kitchen, and leans back against the fridge, not able to contain the tears anymore.

✯

Gigi can’t say he’s very surprised when he leaves Watzke’s office without any further agreement. He knew already that they were demanding too much money for their own players, and the message from BVB’s own scouts must be that they’ve got other players to focus on than Juventus’s. Football’s always a bit cryptic like that – or at least it tries to be.

Still, Gigi smiles politely as he shakes Watzke’s hand, thanking him for the constructive meetings and for the match on Friday, and wishing him good luck in the other ongoing negotiations.

“And best of luck for the spring as well. It really would be a shame for an otherwise such attractive league if Bayern won it yet again.”

“Oh, please, Mr Buffon,” Watzke says with a glimpse in his eye. “Don’t think the word hasn’t reached us that your sympathies lie with our rival Borussia.”

“Yes, well, as a long time Gladbach fan, you learn to appreciate the big matches, rather than the big trophies. I think anyone who follows the Bundesliga would be happy to see a new team win for a change, regardless of which Borussia it is.”

“Exclude our… friends over in Gelsenkirchen and in Munich, and I think we can agree.” Watzke holds out his hand again, and Gigi shakes it. “I wish you a safe flight back home to Italy, and a merry Christmas with your loved ones.”

“Thank you. I wish you the same.”

But it’s with a slightly bitter taste he leaves, hailing a cab to get to the city centre. _Loved ones_ , which consists only of himself this year, as it has every other year ever since the divorce. It would be nice to have something permanent again, something of a more romantic character.

It’s been too long since he last had that.

✯

“Roman.”

No reaction.

“ _Roman_.”

Red-rimmed, puffed eyes look up and Monika sighs, leaning with her hip against the counter as she takes in her friend, collapsed on a chair in the kitchen.

“If you want to leave…”

“It’s just another thirty minutes,” Roman says, trying and failing to put on a smile. “I’ll manage.”

Monika crosses her arms in front of her chest, giving him a stricter look. “I don’t doubt that you will, but the question is whether I’ll let you.”

“Moni, don’t–”

“I’m serious, Roman. Go, I’ll be fine. If you leave now, you’ll even make it to the station comfortably without stressing.”

He looks at her for a moment, but his gaze is empty, like he’s not taking in what’s right in front of him.

“Thank you,” he finally sighs, and she reaches out to pat his shoulder before hurrying out to the costumers.

Monika watches him leave out the front door a few minutes later, knowing that she just made the next half hour much, much harder on herself than necessary. But too many mistakes, too little positivity and holiday spirit, too clumsy service, that could cost them just as much. She knows that Roman is better than this, and that he’ll repay her once he’s not as broken hearted.

She closes her eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath, then rolls up her sleeves. Puts a new tray of buns into the oven before walking out to where the customers are waiting.

Bring it on, Christmas.

Soon, she’s up to her elbows in cinnamon, ginger, star anise, cardamom, and God knows what else with whipped cream, chocolate and caramel on top, and she nearly sobs in relief when a grown, suit-and-briefcase kind of man is the next in line, ordering a standard black coffee to go. She almost, almost thanks him for being so kind to her as she accepts his money.

The man clears his throat as she’s giving back his change. “Roman’s not here?”

“No, sorry,” she says, sending him an apologetic look. “He’s had a bit of a rough shift, so I let him leave early.”

“I see.” It’s hard to tell with his eyes cast downwards as he puts the change back in his wallet, but something about him almost seems disappointed. “Yes, he mentioned something about a bad weekend.”

“Bad break-up is more like it,” Monika responds without really considering her words, sarcasm in her voice, closing her eyes and pressing her lips together in regret immediately after. “Apologies,” she hurries to add, filling up a cup for him. “Here you go.”

“That’s quite alright,” the man assures her. “Thank you.”

“You know,” Monika begins before the man can turn to leave, trying to keep her voice neutral, “I could take a message for him. If you’d like.”

“No, that’s alright, it was nothing of importance. I was merely curious.”

“Right. Well, enjoy your coffee and welcome back.”

The man turns around, making room for the next costumer. Monika hears the door opening and closing as she takes the teenage girl’s Christmas coffee order – more cinnamon and whipped cream with chocolate sprinkled on top –, trying not to let any annoyance show as “All I Want For Christmas Is You” comes on for what has to be at least the seventh time today. Man, is she sick of that song, and she’s in a loving relationship. Thank the lord it’s almost over for this time.

She hands the teenage girl her order and means to have a quick look in the kitchen to check on the buns when someone clears their throat.

“Yes, what can I get–” she begins to ask by sheer reflex, only to cut herself off. “Oh. Anything wrong with your coffee, sir?”

The businessman smiles. “Oh, no, not in the slightest. I was just wondering – you couldn’t do me a wee favour, could you?”

“Sure, anything.”

“It’s probably–” The man cuts himself off with a shake of his head, reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a card, turning it in his hand for a moment before handing it over. “If it’s not too weird and not too much trouble, would you please give this to Roman? If you see him around?”

Monika looks up, sending him a bright smile as she accepts the card.

“I’ll make sure he gets the message,” she promises, sticking the card into her back pocket.

✯

On the early morning on Christmas Eve, Rafael wakes up next to Marc in Marc’s childhood bedroom, praising himself lucky not only because he agreed to join him for the holiday, but for deciding to do his exchange in Barcelona this very semester.

Around noon on Christmas Eve, Nuri sits in front of the television with his son in his lap, watching the Christmas children’s programmes because even though it’s not their holiday, this has turned into somewhat of a tradition, doing his best not to think of the last person who sat there.

In the afternoon on Christmas Eve, Erik comes out of the shower and catches a glimpse of red marks on his pale skin in the mirror, gently brushing his fingers over them before reaching for his shirt and boxers to cover them up.

In the evening on Christmas Eve, Roman sits at his parents’ just staring blankly in front of himself, all appetite lost, lacking all kinds of joy and Christmas spirit.

His parents are sending each other worried looks behind his back, but they know that he doesn’t want to hear it.

“Do you think you might be up for coming with us to Turin next week?” his mum eventually asks, her voice kind and gentle. Roman just shrugs, but that seems to be response enough. “We’ll keep it in mind, then,” his mum decides.

A message ticks in from Monika and Roman’s almost put off by the enthusiasm in the preview alone. Ready to snap back at her, he opens the text, but holds back when he sees that she’s only thanking him so much for the present he got her. _You’re welcome_ , he types with what’s the closest he’s been to a real smile since Friday, and means to close the app when something in her previous text catches his eye. He’s too late to stop the automatic press of his thumb, but he quickly opens the app again, eyes flying over the message.

_you clearly can’t have been THAT bad today, because some very fine gentleman just came by to drop you this ;)_

He can’t even remember this. He must’ve been on the train then, too caught up in his own self-pity to take notice. And then he sees the photo she sent, which must be of the handsome man’s business card. Three words stick out among the contact information on the plain white background.

_Gianluigi Buffon_

_Turin_

Goosebumps spread on Roman’s body and his heart slams against his chest.

So he wasn’t wrong about his assumption.

And the rumours from way back, those he thought were exactly that and nothing more, maybe there was some truth to them after all.

Late at night on Christmas Eve, when Gigi sits at home, alone, ready for the midnight mass from Rome, he receives a text.

_I’ll be in Turin for New Year’s_

_Roman_


End file.
